


Into the Woods

by phinnia



Category: Star Trek: Voyager
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-13
Updated: 2018-12-13
Packaged: 2019-09-17 08:35:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16971309
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phinnia/pseuds/phinnia
Summary: So I rewrote a story of mine 'Do Drinks Have Genders?' to make it about a different paring, but I didn't want to make it obvious.   I think I like the second version better.   Apologies to Douglas Adams for lifiting some of his turns of phrase in the name of fun.  :)





	Into the Woods

“So, what kind of drink do you want?”     
  
Chakotay looks at his date for the beach party and swallows his nerves.   Tom just sort of stands there in the middle of the crowd, plotting a course through it with those incredibly blue eyes, finding a table.   His teeth are worrying at his lower lip thoughtfully.  
  
“Mai tai.”   he finally says, after a long moment.  
  
“A _what_?”   Not something he’s heard of.  
  
“I’ll have a mai tai.   The computer’ll know how to make it.   The _original Trader Vic’s mai tai_ , not any of these idiotic new ones.   And _don’t let Neelix touch it._ ”  
  
Okay, fine.   He lets Tom get the table, since he’s already found one, and he goes over to the replicator and gets the drinks.  
  
Then he brings them back, admiring the figure of Thomas Eugene Paris in the moonlight.   Tall, blonde, and those graceful hands.   Damn.  That had been the first thing to catch his eye - Tom’s hands on the conn, his hands on a pool cue, his hands telling a story.   It seemed he couldn’t have a conversation without using his hands.     
  
The eyes had been the second thing.  As blue as the clover flowers on Darvan V.   Didn’t somebody say something about eyes being the window to the soul?   They must have known somebody like Tom.  
  
He sits down across the table.   “My beer, and your untouched-by-Neelix-original-Trader-Vic’s-mai-tai.”  
  
Tom smiles - damn, that’s a great smile - takes out the green paper parasol from his drink and puts it behind his right ear.  
  
“That’s an awfully feminine drink, Mr. Paris.”   The captain comes over with her glass of wine.  
  
Tom shrugs.   “It’s got rum and orange curacao in it.   And it’s got a higher alcohol content than your wine and the Commander’s beer put together.”  
  
Janeway bends over and sniffs it.  “Hmm.   Well, it smells … interesting, anyway.”  
  
She keeps going, mingling with the crowd.   Tom picks up his drink and sips it.   Chakotay watches as his eyes flutter half-closed and his mouth purses into a kiss.     “Oh, God, I forgot how great these things are.”   he moans softly.  
  
Great Spirit, that face.   Chakotay has to bite his lip and think about naked Cardassians.  
  
  
Neelix’s canapes are decent that night - a little too sweet, but decent all the same - so they have some of those, and Tom has a couple more mai tais.   He puts the next parasol behind his left ear and the third one on the top of his head.     Red, orange, green.     
  
“You look good like that.”   Chakotay says with a smile.   “With the paper things in your hair.”  
  
“You should see what I can do with Christmas bows.”    He gets up and sways, slightly tipsy.   “Maybe that third one was a mistake.   What the hell, I’m off in the morning.”  
  
“You are.”    _And so am I, not that I didn’t plan it that way._   “I’ll walk you home.”  
  
“You don’t have to -“  
  
“You’re my _date_ , I’m going to _walk you home_.”  
  
Tom shrugs, all lanky loose limbs.  “Okay, whatever.”   Not that he couldn’t find his own way home, he’s only six doors down from the holodeck.   But there are ways that you do this.   There are rules that you play by.   And if he has to hold Tom up a little more than he usually would, well … that’s just one of those little prizes that life hands you.  
  
“You want to come in?”   Tom asks him at the door.  
  
“Sure.”   Chakotay smiles.   He’s never been in Tom’s quarters before.  
  
They’re actually fairly small, and he suddenly realizes why.   They’re the same ‘observer’ quarters he got when he was originally assigned space.  
  
“You could ask for someplace bigger, you know.”   Chakotay says.  
  
“This is fine, it holds me and all my stuff.”   he shrugs.    
  
He looks around.   Not a lot of stuff, either.    Neat.   Stack of padds on a table.   Blanket on the sofa.   Shelf of paper books.  
  
Interesting.   He drifts over to look at the books.   Real books.    How much can he figure out from what Tom reads in his spare time?    Jules Verne.   Herman Melville.   Sappho.   H.G. Wells.     
  
Sappho?   Interesting.   “Didn’t figure you were one for poetry.”  
  
“If you are my friend, stand up before me and scatter the grace that’s in your eyes.”   A slight smile.   “She was pretty good.”  
  
Chakotay keeps looking.   Alan Moore?   “What’s ‘The Lost Girls’?”  
  
A slight, spluttering cough.   “Um.  Well, it’s kind of … uh, fairy tales.”  
  
“It’s _kind of_ fairy tales?”    He turns around and looks at Tom’s rapidly reddening face.  
  
“Well … it’s kind of … um, erotic comic-book fairy tales.”    Now he’s staring at his boot tips and trying not to look at Chakotay at all.     
  
“Well, the theory is that all fairy tales are about sexual awakening anyway.   Which ones?”   Now he’s curious.  
  
“Um.”    Tom looks up and smiles at him, a shade too brightly, and then down at his boots again.  “Alice in Wonderland, Dorothy from Oz, and Wendy.  From Peter Pan.”     
  
“Hmmm.”    Chakotay raises an eyebrow.   “That sounds interesting.”  
  
“It is interesting.”  
  
“Wouldn’t mind taking a look at that.”    Purely from an anthropological perspective.   Of course.    
  
“I can lend it to you.”   A slight laugh.   “Just don’t get it all sticky.”  
  
“I won’t.”     He takes hold of Tom’s chin.   “I prefer a more live-action experience.”  
  
Tom brushes his lips against Chakotay’s, at first soft and gentle, and then the kiss warms up.   It gets warmer, and then a lot warmer.   Chakotay’s tongue licks the edges of Tom’s lips, and Tom licks his mouth back.   Tom tastes like rum and orange curacao and almond sugar.  Sweet.   Delicious.  
  
“I’ll get you the book.”   Tom pulls away after a few minutes.   Chakotay can see his eyes, and the pupils are enormous, shaded by only the slightest ring of sapphire blue.  
  
“I could stay.”    He can tell that Tom wants him to.   He can tell from the hitching of his breath, that pink tongue sliding out to lick over his lips, and those eyes.   And there was the erection that was sticking him in the hip.   That was a _sizeable_ factor.  
  
But he’s _hiding_ something, Chakotay can tell that much _just_ from the eyes.   There’s something not quite … truthful going on here.  
  
“Maybe next time.”   A slight smile.   “I’m kind of tired.”  
  
_All right_.   He smiles back, and takes the book, and the brush of Tom’s lips against his at the door.  
  
He sighs and goes back to his own quarters and muses that well, at least he’ll have something to read.    
  
And it’s _got to be better_ than doing reports.     
  
_Anything_ is better than doing reports.  
  
  
It is interesting, this fairy-tale erotica.   He gets as far as the end of the first volume, ‘Older Children’.  The story is great, and the illustrations are even better.   (Also, it does help that Alice was a blue-eyed blonde, not that dissimilar to his date the previous evening.)     
  
His dreams are of a different blonde, though - one that speaks with his hands and drinks mai tais in an extremely erotic fashion.    He’d love to see Tom make that face again.   After a few glasses of wine, maybe.   Or without the aid of alcohol at all.     
  
He has a shower and then shows up in the mess.     
  
Today’s Neelix special is some kind of brilliant pink glop that looks like some kind of oatmeal or porridge or something, except for the color.     
  
He sees Tom sitting in a far corner.   “Mind if I sit down?”  
  
“Sure, go ahead.”   He’s poking at his porridge.   “This is pretty … pretty different.   Have you tried it?”  
  
“No.”   He tries it.   It is almost, but not quite, entirely unlike bananas.    Or any other fruit.   But it’s desperately trying to be fruit-flavored.   “The meals just get stranger and stranger as we go on.”  
  
“I know.”   Tom says.   “Eventually we’ll all be craving leola root.”     A long pause.    “How’s the book?”  
  
“In absolutely pristine condition.”     
  
Tom smiles slightly.   “You read any?”  
  
“I got as far as the end of the first volume.”  
  
“What’d you make of it?”  
  
“Well, I’m pretty sure that theory was right about fairy tales.”  
  
“That does explain the wolf and Little Red Riding Hood.”     Tom thinks.    “The Three Little Pigs, though …”  
  
“Well, that depends how kinky you want to get.”    Chakotay murmurs.    
  
Tom almost chokes on his porridge and starts laughing.  
  
  
That day on the bridge is interesting.    It gets even more interesting just after lunch, when Chakotay gives in to the mischevious feelings that are running just beneath the surface, walks up just behind Tom and whispers “ _oink oink oink”_ in his ear.   The picture of him trying not to laugh (and choking on just that) is hysterical.   Tuvok’s eyebrow almost goes straight through the ceiling, and Harry Kim just has that ‘I-don’t-get-the-joke’ expression on his face that makes him look like a confused puppy.   Captain Janeway gives him a strange look, and he looks straight back at her and pretends to be completely, entirely innocent.  
  
“You have any plans for the evening?”   He asks Tom at the end of his shift.     
  
“Haven’t really thought of anything yet.”   Half a smile.   “You have anything to interest me?”  
  
“Well, I thought about dinner.   I cook better than Neelix.   I promise it’s better than whatever breakfast was trying to be.”  
  
“Sounds great.   What time?”  
  
“You can come by now, if you want.   I’ll break open one of my carefully hoarded bottles of Anterian cider.”  
  
“Actually …. I have to drop something with B’Elanna, it’ll take five minutes.”    He smiles.   “I’ll be right over.”  
  
There was something odd in his eyes again., just now.    But Chakotay goes onto his own deck and Tom is, in fact, back in ten minutes.   The reason for the slight delay is fairly obvious, as he’s shaved and is now wearing cologne.    
  
And he looks great, all long body leaning foward on the counter island, chewing at his lip thoughtfully.  It’s a thing he does when he’s nervous.   Chakotay knows that if he says anything, that chewed lip will morph into a smile of some type and he will say that wasn’t thinking about anything consequential.     
  
He wants to get behind that.   The careful mask.   The shielded eyes that he knows are lying, but he doesn’t know what they’re lying about.  
  
So he pours Tom a glass of cider.   And he pours one for himself, and drinks his own slowly.  
  
Tom doesn’t drink slowly - he doesn’t take life slowly.   He takes life by the hair and screams in its face until it gives up its secrets.  He knocks half the cider back.  
  
“So what’s for dinner?”   he asks.  
  
“My famous mu shu mushrooms.    You’ll love them.”   This is one of those dishes he makes for dates.  
  
And he watches as Paris prowls around his own quarters like an interested house cat, looking at books and holos of Chakotay’s family and the dreamcatcher behind his bed.    “You read a lot of nonfiction.”  
  
“Yeah, I do.”  
  
“Better books than most people have, though.   The majority of people around here read daily reports and whatever novel is on their radar.”  
  
“That is sadly true.”   Chakotay serves out the meal.    “Dinner’s up.”  
  
One of Tom’s sweeter smiles, this one hiding nothing.   He comes over and they sit next to each other on stools at the counter, eating and talking about not much, gossip and ship’s business.   It’s light and pleasant, and he watches amused as those long hands eschew the fork and just use fingers to eat with.     Then Tom licks his fingers off with that pink tongue, which is maddenning to watch.     
  
“You’re making me crazy.”   he says, matter-of-factly.  
  
“I’m eating dinner.”   Those blue eyes blink back at him, all innocence, and he licks a trail of dim sum sauce off his thumb and index finger.  
  
Chakotay takes the plate away and sets it to the side, on the counter.   “You have a little sauce there.”  
  
“Where?”  
  
“I’ll get it.”   He leans in and kisses the sauce off of Tom’s lips.    The sauce is sweet and tangy and so is Tom, with undercurrents of Anterian cider.  
  
They’ve been flirting most of the night, keeping it low-key over dinner, just smiles and the occasional touch of a hand or flash of a tongue, but it’s keeping things on a simmer.    Chakotay murmurs as the kiss gets heated quickly - much faster than last night.   Tom’s hands are roving against his back and Chakotay nips that lower lip, then sucks on it soothingly.     
  
He steps back from Tom  to take in the whole picture - tangled blonde curls, blown-wide pupils, kiss-bruised, wet lips that remind Chakotay of a piece of fruit - _do_   _I dare to eat a peach_ wanders through his mind in search of something to connect with - and his skin, pale, slightly reddening, with a hundred pinpoint freckles that only show up then, like faraway stars.     
  
“You _are really_ making me crazy now.”     
  
Now Tom just looks confused.   “ _How?_ ”  
  
“Well, you’re standing all the way over there, to start with.”  
  
He smiles and backs up a little further.    Chakotay takes this as the challenge it’s meant to be, and pursues him until Tom’s trapped against a wall and he kisses him into a delicious submission, that long throat leaning back to be nipped at, soothed again.  
  
“We could take this to the bedroom.”     Chakotay whispers, inhaling Tom’s intriguing, citrus-and-metallic scent.  
  
“Mmm.”    Tom nods, and that gentle mumble turns into a soft moan as Chakotay’s tongue finds his ear.     
  
His ears travel to graceful points - not quite Vulcan or Ocampan, just an interesting variant on human physiology that Chakotay’s not seen before.   “You have pixie ears.”   he mumbles into one.  
  
“My mother always called me an imp.”   Tom murmurs.    
  
“You are definitely an imp.”    He thinks of Tom as a fairy changeling, dropped on his parents from another world, the son they could never really cope with or understand.  
  
Deep thoughts for another time, perhaps.  Tom is stripping, his uniform falling to the side like scattered leaves, and he smiles and pulls off his uniform shirt, eager to catch up.     
  
They fall together naked on the bed, licking and kissing, nipping and biting at revealed skin.   He can feel Tom’s cock hot against his belly, and he reaches down to investigate that.   It’s beautiful - long and slender, firm.    He’s quieter than Chakotay thought he would be - not silent as such, but he talks with his eyes and his body.   You can see the need there in the strain of muscles held in shoulders, in the tightness in his ass and in the helpless, wanting groans when Chakotay enters him, in how he bites the pillow when the orgasm spills away, sticky and hot.   Considering how much Tom is a chatterbox elsewhere, this quiet is an interesting surprise.  
  
And he cuddles, which is also interesting.   It’s like having a blonde, fuzzy teddy bear for the night.  
  
“Mind if I stay?”   Tom whispers.    
  
“Of course.”    Chakotay wonders why that was even a question.  
  
  
They have to split up fairly early in the morning because of an early bridge officer’s conference, but Chakotay keeps remembering flashes of the night before - those gorgeous blue eyes looking up into his own, the shape of Tom’s ear under his tongue, that long, pale throat.     
  
And, he notes, that lovebite, which shows if you look at the right angle at the edge of the turtleneck undershirt.  
  
He sees Harry eyeing it speculatively as well.   He’d known that Harry and Tom had had a fling a while back and called it quits, but he wonders why that’s happening.  
  
Jealousy?     
  
He hopes not.  
  
  
As it turns out, Tom has a split shift in Sickbay that evening, so Chakotay goes down to Sandrine’s for a drink.   He gets a beer and tries to find himself a place to sit, but it’s crowded - a lot of people are off shift.   He finds Harry Kim sitting at a corner table in a back corner.  
  
“Mind if I join you?”  
  
“Sure.”   Harry drinks the some of his beer and wipes the foam off his lip.   “I see you got Tom into bed.”  
  
“Well, yeah.   What gave it away?”  
  
“The bruise.”    Harry sighs.   “That man is such a tease.   You’re luckier than I am.”  
  
This is surprising.   “What, you never?”  
  
“No.    That was why we broke it off, actually.   He talks a good game and he’s one hell of a flirt, but he won’t let you take him to bed.”    A long sigh.    “I wasted so many rations on showers.”  
  
“Torres to Kim.”  
  
“Kim here.”   Harry taps his communicator.  
  
“Can you come down here?   There’s something odd going on with the sensors I can’t quite work out.”  
  
“On my way.”   Harry drinks the rest of his beer.   “Well, best of luck with Tom.   You seem to be having okay luck so far.”  
  
  
This, and all the other things he’s found out in the past few days - the strange silence, the stranger request to stay, that Tom and Harry never went to bed together, and that odd sensation that Chakotay can see behind Tom’s eyes - that isn’t quite lying, but it is hiding something - means he should consult his spirit guide for advice.   So he goes back to his quarters and does that.  
  
He opens his eyes and looks calmly into the golden eyes of the wolf-spirit.   _Little sister._   he says calmly.  
  
_Little brother._   She replies in kind, inclining her shaggy grey head.   _Look beneath the surface_.   Then she turns and walks through the glade, disappearing.  
  
He blinks.   Is that all?  
  
_Look beneath the surface._ He hears again in the wolf-voice, and looks around at the familiar trees and rocks of this glade.     He sighs, and comes back to the present.  
  
It doesn’t make any more sense in the present, either.  
  
Beneath what surface?  
  
  
He takes Tom back to the beach the following evening.   “You want another mai tai?”  
  
He’s thinking again, chewing that poor abused bottom lip.   “No.   Tonight … I think … Death in the Afternoon.”  
  
“ _What’s_ it called?”  
  
“Death in the Afternoon.   Hemingway invented it.   It’s absinthe and champagne.”  
  
Chakotay coughs at the very idea.   “Well, nice knowing you.”   But he gets the drink anyway.   This drink is strangely milky, and yet … effervescent.   It’s weird.  
  
Tom sips it and flutters his eyelids.   “Mmm.   Hemingway said you should drink three to five of these.”  
  
“Per _lifetime_?”  
  
“No, I think he meant per _day._    But he was one hell of a drinker.    Probably better at drinking than writing.”    He drinks a little more of it.   “You want to try this?”  
  
“Sure.”   He tries the slightest sip.   Anise, fennel.  Something bitter.  Interesting other tastes.   Other herbal tastes he can’t make out.   And the champagne.  Something sweet, too.   “Is there sugar in this?”  
  
“There’s some sugar dissolived in it.   It’s customary in absinthe drinks.   It’s just a thing you do.   They used to have absinthe spoons, and you’d pour the absinthe over some ice and a sugar cube.  It was called ‘the green fairy.’”  Tom smiles, a small, private smile.   “Speaking of fairy tales.   They figured it was hallucinogenic.”  
  
“Interesting.”     
  
Tom drinks the last half of his absinthe-laced champagne.   “Shit, I am really drunk.   That absinthe’s got a hell of a kick.”  
  
“Three to five of these things?”   Chakotay says, helping him up.     
  
“He was a professional drunkard.”    Tom giggles.  “A citizen of the world!”  
  
“A citizen of the world?”  
  
“You haven’t seen Casablanca?   We should watch that.    “S one hell of a movie.”   Tom is drunk, drunk and loose-limbed and snuggly again.   “I really shouldn’t drink those things.”  
  
“Oh, I don’t know.”    Chakotay nuzzles Tom’s neck.   “I like you like this.   You get all sweet and cuddly.”  
  
“Mmm.”   Tom hums into his mouth.  
  
“Can I come in?”   Chakotay purrs in his ear.  
  
Those blue eyes are hazy as he looks into them.     
  
Tom pouts.   Chakotay can see the bite marks on his lower lip.   “May-be.”    he murmurs.  
  
“Why not?”  
  
“Kinda tired, that’s all.”   He yawns hugely.   “Absinthe makes me sleepy.”  
  
“Does it?”   He smiles.   “Want me to tuck you in?”     
  
“I think I’m okay.”  Tom brushes his lips against Chakotay’s - once, twice, three times - and then he disappears into his quarters.     
  
On his way back to his quarters, Chakotay wonders, yet again, what surface he’s supposed to look under.  
  
  
The next morning, he tries to meet Tom just as he’s coming out of his quarters, but he misses him. Looks like he’s flown a shuttlecraft down to the planet they’re orbiting.   The magnasite ore is making it hard for the transporters to get a lock, so he had to take a shuttle down.  
  
_Tom Paris, why do you have to do this?_ he says to himself, shaking his head in fond exasperation.  
  
He sits down by the viewport, and is digging into his breakfast (some kind of breakfast … stew, which makes no sense, but this is the Delta Quadrant, so today’s breakfast is stew) when B’Elanna Torres thumps her tray down across from him.   “So, you’re the man.”  
  
“Am I?”   He looks at her over his stew bowl.    What is in this?   Obviously leola root, somehow, because leola root is in everything, but there’s some other kind of weird squashlike vegetable in it.   “What makes me ’the man’ again?”  
  
“You’re the first one to get our chief pilot’s pants off.”   She is definitely smirking.  “What’s he like in the sack?”  
  
“Quieter than you’d expect.”   He stuffs his mouth full of mystery stew.  
  
“I’d pictured him as a screamer.  Interesting.”     
  
He looks at her over his stew bowl.   “The first one?”  
  
“First one on this ship, anyway.   Harry says he flirts and teases and won’t put out.   How did you manage?”  
  
Chakotay thinks about this.   “I think I just had to give him dinner.”  
  
  
He’s on the bridge when the shuttle comes in.   “ _Shuttlecraft Lovelace to Voyager.”_  
  
It’s Harry Kim.   “Harry, what’s wrong?”  
  
“It’s Tom.   One of the Kazon got into the shuttlecraft - they had our shield codes.   I managed to fight him off, but he hit Tom over the head first, and he’s unconscious.   I can get us back to Voyager, but you might want to beam him directly to Sickbay.   That Kazon had a knife with him.  I got the bleeding stopped, though.”  
  
“Okay, thanks, Harry.”   _Tom Paris, you dumb idiot.   Why do you have to do this?_ He sighs and makes his way down to Sickbay.  
  
When Tom gets beamed in, he’s groggy, but still his usual self, trying to get out of there.   “Look, I’m fine.”  
  
“You have a concussion, Mr. Paris.”     
  
“It’s fine!   Harry exaggerates.   It’s just a mild concussion.”  
  
“I’d diagnose it more as a medium concussion.”  
  
“Okay, fine, potato, patato, whatever, doc.”   Tom jumps off the bio-bed.   “I’m really okay.”    He staggers a little bit.   Chakotay grabs him by the arm.  
  
The Doctor sighs that irritated sigh.   “Commander, will you watch Mr. Paris?   Because he’s not going to stay here, obviously.   Not that he ever does.”   He goes off muttering something about good assistants and how they make terrible patients under his breath.     
  
“Come on.”   Chakotay smiles at his ridiculous and half-invincible boyfriend.    “Let’s get you home.”  
  
  
“I’m going to be okay, I promise.”   Tom says.     
  
“Yes, but I said I’d look after you.”    Chakotay replies.  
  
“I’ll be fine!”  
  
“You have a concussion.   And not a mild one, either.”    He looks at Tom again, more closely.   “I know Harry exaggerates, but the Doctor doesn’t, and he said I should watch you.”    
  
A lot of emotions flicker through Tom’s eyes.   He can’t track every one of them, but he knows Tom’s not telling the whole truth again.  
  
“Okay.”   Tom sighs.   “Come in, then.”     
  
  
He sits on the bed.   “You want anything?”  
  
“Nope, I’m okay.”   Tom sits down on the sofa.    “We were gonna watch a movie, remember?”  
  
“Oh, right.”    Chakotay comes over and sits down next to him.    “Casablanca, wasn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah.”   A bright, happy smile.   “RIght.   I got it somewhere in this stack, over here.”   He looks through a stack of vids.     
  
“This is where you hide the rest of your porn, right?”    Chakotay looks through them.   _The Maltese Falcon, The Thin Man.  Judgement at Nuremberg.   The Big Sleep._ A lot of old movies he’s never heard of.     
  
“Oh, yeah.   Black and white movies.   Actually, you caught me, I do have kind of a thing for Humphrey Bogart.   Well, and Lauren Bacall.”   He keeps looking.   “Damnit, Harry probably borrowed it.”  
  
“Well, we could just snuggle.”  He puts the vids back on the table, and puts his arm around Tom’s shoulders.   “We could watch one of these other ones.”  
  
“Nah.   Casablanca’s the best one.   It’s the most romantic one.”    Tom smiles.   “It’s great.   It’s about a guy that runs a bar in Casablanca during the Second World War.   He went there for the waters, but he was misinformed.”  
  
“I don’t get it.”  
  
“Casablanca’s in the desert.”     
  
Chakotay nuzzles Tom’s neck.    “C’mere, you.   Let me check your head.”  
  
“My head is fine.”  Tom protests.     
  
“Let me check it anyway.”  
  
“Okay, it hurts a bit.”  
  
“A bit?”   He raises an eyebrow.  
  
“Okay, kind of more than a bit.”  
  
“A scale of one to ten?”  
  
Tom thinks, and worries his bottom lip again.  
  
“Come on, Paris.  Scale of one to ten.   Did you stub your toe, or did you remove vital organs without getting knocked out?”  
  
“Well … maybe a six.”  
  
“A six?”   Chakotay yells.  
  
“Five and a half?”     
  
“I’m going to carry you back to Sickbay, Thomas Eugene.”  
  
“No.”   Tom’s lips move from joking to set, even, and his eyes are pale blue ice.   “That’s one place I’m not going.   There are certain things that are not going in my medical files, and I don’t care how much pain I’m in.”  
  
“What kind of things?”     
  
“Nothing.”  
  
He gives Tom his First Officer’s Glare, and when that doesn’t work, he tries looking at him with the look that always used to get him cookies when his grandmother was baking them.    “It’s not nothing, if it’s keeping you in pain.”  
  
“You don’t know all of my weird kinks.”   A twisted smile.   “Maybe I like pain.”  
  
“No, I don’t.”   Chakotay takes Tom by the chin.   “But I’d like to.”   He looks in those eyes.  Deep, deep blue.   Like those clover flowers.    “I’d like it if you thought you can share things with me.”  
  
Tom looks at him for a long, long time.    A long time.   A very long time.  
  
“You really mean that?”   He says, in a shocked near-whisper.  
  
“I do.   Speaking as your boyfriend, not as your counsellor, not as your superior officer,  This is just me.   Chakotay.  The guy you play pool with.”     
  
Tom takes a deep breath.   A really deep breath:  inhale and then an exhale.   “Okay.   I’m gonna lock the door.   Computer, run program Paris gamma gamma gamma alpha lock.”  
  
“Secure lock enabled.”     
  
“What did that do?”   Chakotay asked.  
  
“It’s a lock that only I can override with a ten-digit PIN.”    He smiles.   “It’s surprising what you can learn in prison.”  
  
Then Tom steps in front of him.   He takes a deep breath.   “Strip me.”   He toes off his own boots and socks.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“Strip me.”  Tom is looking at him, and Chakotay gets the feeling like he’s holding someone’s beating heart in his hands.   “Take off my clothes.”  
  
He pulls off Tom’s sweater, and the turtleneck undershirt.  
  
Nothing there, just a fading lovebite on the neck, the gorgeous chest hair.     
  
He pulls the trousers down and gasps.  
  
He was expecting to see regulation Starfleet underwear.    
  
He was not expecting to see Tom Paris wearing pink silk panties.   But hot damn, they look fantastic.   They make his skin … glow, almost.  
  
“You don’t think I’m a freak?”   Tom whispers.  
  
“No   Because you make that look amazing.”     
  
“I have … I have camisoles? And some other things.”  
  
Chakotay’s cock, which was already at half-mast due to the panties, jumped at the notion of ‘other things.’  
  
“What kind of other things?”   He purrs in Tom’s ear.  
  
“Well, if you like these, I can show you.”    Tom sits down on his lap briefly.     
  
“I wonder if I can convince Janeway to let me do first officer duties from the conn seat, and you sit in my lap and pilot from there.”    Chakotay rumbles.   “You look fantastic.”  
  
“My father thought I was a freak.”  
  
“Admiral Paris knows nothing about you, or anything about lingerie.”      Chakotay murmurs into Tom’s ear.   “You know, I think you may have been a changeling baby.    It would explain the shape of your ears.”  
  
Tom grins at him in pure delight.   “Okay, close your eyes.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Because I’m going to show you something else.    But you have to close your eyes first.”  
  
“One of your ‘other things’?”  
  
“Yes.”   Another smile.    “One of those.”  
  
So Chakotay closes his eyes.     
  
He hears rustling, and a drawer opening and closing, and more rustling.   Then Tom’s hand, touching his face.   “Okay.  You can look now.”  
  
He looks.   Great Spirit.  
  
His mouth actually goes dry.  
  
It’s a blue silk nightgown - short, very short, it only goes down to his hips - that’s the exact blue of his eyes and there are white silk ribbons that lace up the back.  
  
“That is not staying on you long.”    He says, with a shocking amount of stability in his voice.  
  
“Isn’t it?”   Tom sits down on his lap again.     
  
“No, it’s not.   How did you - never mind.   Never mind.”   He kissed Tom, kissed under the shoulder strap, under the panels at the side.    “No, I have to know.  How did you get this the exact color of your eyes?”  
  
Tom smiles at him again.   “Money.   You have no idea how ridiculously expensive this was.   Ten bars of gold-pressed latinum.”  
  
“It was worth it.”     Chakotay carefully removed it and looked at the long, beautiful figure of Tom Paris   Tall, elegant, gorgeous.   Hiding so many things under the suface.  
  
Tom is hard, too.    Hard and hot, leaking little beads of fluid on his stomach.    
  
“Let’s go to bed.”   Chakotay murmurs.     
  
“Yeah.”   Tom groans.   “You’d think I’d be used to denial by now.”  
  
“Didn’t think you could tell anyone?”  
  
“Well, when your own _father_ thinks you’re a freak …”  
  
Chakotay takes Tom’s hand.    “Let’s go.   Come on.   Let’s go.”  
  
He takes Tom to bed.      Kisses him all over.    
  
“How did you get so beautiful, Tom Paris?”   He mutters in Tom’s ear.     
  
“I think it was the fairies.”  he murmurs.  
  
“Could have been the fairies.”   Chakotay laughs, trailing fingers down Tom’s skin.   “Oh.    Tonight, I’ll give you anything.”  
  
“I just want you to fuck me.”   He whispers.    
  
“Anything.”    He lubes his fingers up and works one inside Tom, then two, corkscrewing them to work him open better, and then the head of his cock slides in.  “Let me see how you really are in bed.”  He murmurs with a smile.   “Show me, Tom.”  
  
“Oh, God.”   Tom slides himself backwards on Chakotay’s cock with a hiss.   “God, fuck, fuck me, fuck me hard.”  
  
He fucks Tom Paris.  He fucks him as hard as he can.   “You look … so hot in those things.   Do you wear them a lot?”  
  
“Every day.”  
  
“So every day, under your uniform, you are wearing silk, satin and lace panties?”   He thrusts inside harder, deeper.   “Every day, sitting at the conn seat, you’re wearing those gorgeous panties?  I’m going to have to look at you every day now and remember that.”   He bites Tom’s neck.   “And you have camisoles?”  
  
“Yeah.”   Tom’s voice sounds mostly broken and not like himself at all,   “They match the panties.   Oh, God, more.”  
  
He fucks Tom harder and harder.    Tom’s cock is as hard as duranium and he’s gasping, moaning.   He takes it in his hand and strokes it, hard.  
  
Tom’s breath is hitching.  
  
“Come on, come for me.”   he purrs.  “Come for me, come on.”    
  
He hears the cry start in the back of Tom’s throat, and it comes out as a half-scream, half-wail, and he coaxes every drop of come out of Tom’s cock.     
  
Tom cuddles around him again.     
  
“Wear the camisoles.”   he murmurs.     
  
“You mean it?”  
  
“Oh yes.”    He murmurs.   “More things I want to think about every day in the first officer’s chair.”     
  
  
Several days later, they’re back at the beach resort again.  
  
“So what is that you’re drinking today?”    Another odd-looking, milky drink.  
  
“This is called ‘a screaming orgasm’.”   Tom smirks.    “It’s got cream, vodka, amaretto, triple sec, and creme de cacao in it.”  
  
“I like the name.”   he replies with that smile that he keeps for Tom alone.     
  
“I thought you might.”  
  
“Reminds me of you.”    He smiles at Tom blushing at him.   “Are you going to get all cuddly and sleepy again?”  
  
“I might.”    Tom murmurs.   “If you decide to cuddle with me.”  
  
“I think I can manage to find the time.”  
  
The captain comes over to their table again.   “Is that milk, Mr. Paris?”  
  
“Definitely not milk, captain.”   he says, and takes a drink of it.   “Milk with a kick to it.    But it is going to put me to sleep, and probably fairly soon.”    He yawns, and blinks his eyes innocently.   “Yes, I think probably fairly soon.”  
  
“Maybe we should put you to bed.”   Chakotay says to Tom.   “Come on.”  
  
Tom finishes the rest of his drink and licks it off the top of his upper lip. Chakotay puts his arm around him, cuddling him close.      
  
“Wear the blue one.”   he murmurs in Tom’s ear as they walk.  
  
“Not the white one?  You really liked the white one.   With the pink ribbons.”  
  
“No, I like the blue one.   I like the way it looks with your eyes.   And I will read you a story.”    He says, purring, showing his dimples.   “How about _Peter Pan_?”  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. :)


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